Heart of the Horsemaiden
by krissakai
Summary: Young Illian, princess of Rohan, becomes queen when tragedy befalls the rest of her family. Her long-time friend, Eomund, desires to help her bear the burden, but she pushes him away. But when he is chosen as Rohan's king, she may have no other choice.
1. Chapter 1

Chapter One

Eomund shifted in the saddle, tightening his knees as his mount sidestepped.

"I wager Driten is the only one here with energy enough to play," said Railf, his second in command.

"Aye, he's in better shape than me." Eomund glanced over his eored. "And many here."

It was rare for the eored to leave Edoras so near to winter's coming, but last week they had receive word that wolves had attacked the horse herds in the Southern lands. Good mounts were few in these times of famine and war; Rohan could ill afford any more losses.

"There she is."

Eomund glanced up. Warmth rushed through him despite his frozen toes and the biting wind shrieking across the rocky hills and valleys. _Edoras_.

His men sighted the town, rising above the crest of the hill, and greeted it with a faint cheer. Eomund clicked at Driten and he broke into a gallop, the rest of the eored pounding after him.

Eomund would be chafing for action after a few weeks of winter confinement, but for now their homecoming was blessed relief.

* * *

><p>How could a man make horses so dull?<p>

Illian straightened in her seat and took a deep breath to regain her focus.

"…And Hitlaen has promised to supply 30 mounts for wedding guests' use."

Illian blinked and fixed her steward with a stern look.

"Illi—milady, as the sole remaining member of your family you must soon marry to ensure Rohan's future security." Girult gazed at her warily. "Surely you did not expect to rule Rohan by yourself."

"I certainly did not expect my advisors to be planning my wedding."

"Naturally, we will heed your wishes in the matter, my lady, but—"

Illian made a quick motion to still his clucking. "I suppose you have him picked out as well? Out with it, Girult."

"The council did discuss that political alliances with Gonder would allow for quicker transit of supplies from the ports in Dol Amroth. Prince Brecin is a fine young man—"

"Who would never survive a Rohan winter." Illian shook her head. When she met him last autumn he'd seemed cordial enough, a man of good heart but poor health. "And Prince Dinethren will be engaged by the end of the fortnight, though it has not yet been announced. I have considered the matter some, Girult."

"You speak truth, milady." The man leaned back in his chair. "But we had thought that…"

Illian narrowed her eyes at his prolonged silence.

"I'm not going to like him."

"Not that, milady."

"Well?"

Girult sighed. "The leader of milady's Rohirrim is a strong, brave man and a good warrior. He commands the respect of the people."

"Impossible." Illian felt her world tilt and grasped for it. "Eomund is doubtless all you say, but he has been a trusted friend and brother to me since we were children. I cannot marry him."

"Surely it would be more agreeable than wedding a stranger, Illian—"

Illian stood, grabbing her chair as it tipped. Its carved surface bit into her fingers and she loosened her grip.

"I have lost father, mother, sister, and brother in the past year, Girult." Illian swallowed. "Please do not ask my remaining friends of me as well."

The old man stared at her, lost in his own memories, and then lowered his gaze to the polished tabletop.

Illian looked up at hurried footsteps in the corridor. The council room door shuddered under a heavy hand. "Queen Illian."

Asef, the door guard. He should be at his post. "Come in."

The young man pushed the door open and bowed, his shaggy blond hair falling in his face. "The eored has returned, milady. Even now they approach Edoras."

"Thank-you, Asef."

He reddened, nodded and retreated down the hall. Illian glanced back at Girult. "We'll discuss this later."

Girult did not reply.

* * *

><p>Eomund forced his weary arms to lift the saddle from Driten's steaming back. He stepped outside the stall and carefully placed the equipment on its rack.<p>

_Show me dirty gear and I'll show you a poor rider_, his old instructor had said. It was true enough. Old habits died hard.

Eomund picked up the stiff-bristled brushes beside the saddle and slipped back into Driten's stall, being careful to latch the door behind him. He drew the brush over the animal's back and down its legs, flicking his wrist to loosen imbedded dirt.

"Milord Eomund."

He turned, grunting as Driten nudged his shoulder and left a smear of white hair. Railf leaned on the stall's half-door. He handed Eomund a folded sheet of parchment.

"The wind blew it from the grain room knothole."

Eomund's gaze flicked up from the missive to meet his friend's. He frowned and took it, cupping the bridge of Driten's nose with a gloved hand.

"The queen said to get some food and a night's rest before giving your report," Railf said. "If it's not urgent."

Eomund shook his head. "It can wait."

"Is there anything more you require?"

"No, thank-you."

Railf nodded and moved down the row of stalls to check on his own horse before finding his bed. Eomund rubbed Driten's forehead, watching the highlights play in the animal's dark eyes.

It had been near six months since Illian last left him a message in "their" knothole, discovered and claimed as children in their seventh year. They'd seen less of each other of late. She was busy with her duties and he…

Eomund sighed. He'd felt the keen edge of the reality of her status.

He glanced at the parchment and slid it in the saddlebags hung over the stall door. What did Illian need? Maybe she finally could admit the pain of her family's deaths. Eomund grimaced at the prospect of her grief. But perhaps it would give her some ease.

"I'm no better than you with tears," he murmured, patting Driten and gathering his brushes. The horse blew down his neck and turned to follow as Eomund stepped out of the stall.

"Nay, friend_._" Eomund smiled as he replaced the brushes. "It's time to rest for the both of us."

* * *

><p>Illian wrapped her cloak tight over her thick green dress and pulled her fur-lined hood up to cover her ears. The wind tugged at the fabric and blew her hair across her cheeks.<p>

She stepped carefully between the withered plants of the kitchen garden and onto the hard-trod path that curled between clustered houses to the city barricade. Illian slipped through the gate and hurried between the low hills. A creek wound along at their base.

The sun spilled over a hilltop onto Edoras as Illian paused beneath a straggly oak.

"How did you escape your babysitters this time?"

Illian gave Eomund a small smile as he stepped from a cove of trees to her side. "Practice."

His keen, blue eyes probed around the corners of her defenses. "Something goes ill with you?"

Her gaze skittered away, over the awakening countryside. "Nay, I'm in good health."

"For now." Eomund shifted to block the wind and his sword clinked against his armor. "Best tell me quick, before you catch the chills out here."

Illian swallowed, wishing for the eloquence she'd been taught, but it had fled. Cursed be this world, that brought such a trial between dear friends.

"It is bad, then."

She caught his concerned gaze and pain twisted her heart. "I do not know, _marhelb_. I do not know how to tell you."

"I would help you." Eomund sighed. "If I can."

"The council is—concerned. For my safety."

"Then they should watch their queen more carefully, so she can not evade them." He scowled at her.

"Eomund." Illian shook her head. "They are afraid I will die. Without an heir."

His tall figure stiffened and his eyes flickered. "They wish you to marry."

"Yes."

Eomund stared out over the tawny hills for several long heartbeats, then slowly let out his breath through his teeth. He turned back to her with a gentle smile.

"Do not be afraid, milady. There are many honorable men who can be of great aid to Rohan."

"Yes…" Illian frowned. Why this reaction? His self-control never slipped. "But not many who can bear up under the rigors of our life."

"Then what troubles you?"

She swallowed. "They wish me to marry you, Eomund."

He did not reply and Illian risked a glance upward. He looked stunned, like when Driten had blindsided him during training; his eyes were unfocused and his body tense.

"Please understand, Eomund, I will do what I can. But I fear I have little sway and shall have to bend to their will eventually. I thought I ought to warn you—"

"Milady." Eomund's gaze flicked down and his hand brushed her fingers. "You honor me."

She bit her lip and took a careful breath, her gaze tracing the curving designs on his leather cuirass. "I have lost all those I held dear. Why must our friendship be sacrificed also?"

A bird's low warble drew taut the silence and at the nearest hut a woman called for her child.

"It would be different. Difficult, perhaps."

Illian caught his gaze, the shock of his quiet statement stinging to her toes. Eomund's eyes were calm. Inscrutable.

"You are not troubled."

His features softened. "I would rather you be in my care, than a stranger's."

"I'd sooner suffer a stranger's," Illian said. Better that fate than to lose the friend she cherished.

Eomund straightened and a hardness like a whetted blade slid across his face. She clutched the folds of her cloak, glimpsing the dangerous warrior of the Mark.

"I'm sorry, I did not mean—"

"Milady." Eomund touched her elbow and turned her gently toward the city. "Do not concern yourself with me. Your will is mine."

"Please, do not—" He flung her a glance and the words stuck in her throat.

"You'd best hurry." Eomund pushed open the side gate Illian had left ajar. "They will be searching for you."

"It is early yet." Illian hesitated in the opening, seeking the words to mend her blunder. Could she never heed her father's admonishment and think before she spoke?

Eomund nodded. "If you have need of me, I'm at your service."

She clutched the frame of the gate. "Eomund, I—"

A quick movement and his hand covered her mouth. His fingers were calloused but not ungentle.

"Do not be distressed, milady." He dropped his hand. "You shall be cared for, whether by me or another."

Illian swallowed, afraid her emotions would betray her and she would cry. "You always speak with wisdom, my friend."

He glanced down, his expression unreadable. "Not always."

The morning breeze whistled through the grass. Eomund nodded farewell and stepped away, striding through the waist-high weeds toward the lower city.

Illian rested her forehead on the gatepost, blinking back tears.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter Two

"What did she need?"

Eomund used the tip of his knife to carefully edge dirt out of the pattern on his cuirass. It was useless to pretend with Railf.

"The council is arranging a marriage for her. The throne must have an heir."

He felt his friend's piercing gaze. "So…"

"Milady will always do what is best for Rohan."

"As will you." Railf's voice sounded loud in the silence of the hall.

"Aye, as will I."

Eomund brushed debris off the surface of the leather cuirass and started on the next curling design. It was a boring, tedious task, but it needed to be done.

"It is a grievous thing that our leader should ride into battle carrying pain from our own people."

Eomund's hands stilled at Railf's words. "We all bear our own scars. I will not be a coward and shrink from bearing mine."

His friend's dark eyes rested on him a moment. "Take care lest you bear it needlessly."

* * *

><p>"No. Absolutely not."<p>

"Milady, we have no other choice." Girult followed Illian as she paced the small interior of the study. "Ominous reports come from our southern borders every day and again the wolves threaten the herds. Eomund may be called away any day."

"But two days?" Illian fixed her steward with a hot glare. "I will not even have a proper dress!"

"The ladies can alter what you already own." Girult halted and watched her, sighing. "I know it's unusual, but these are unusual and dangerous times."

"And Eomund?"

Girult raised his chin. "I will speak with him immediately."

"No." Illian forced her gaze to not waiver at his startled look. "I'll tell him."

Her steward shrugged. "As you wish, milady. I will go attend to the preparations."

"Fetch Eomund for me, please. I will speak with him here." Illian watched Girult leave, then leaned her elbow on the center table and dropped her head. _What am I doing? This is a nightmare._

* * *

><p>"Milady, are you ill?"<p>

A warm hand rested on her shoulder and Illian raised her head from the table, swallowing as she met Eomund's anxious blue gaze. He knelt beside her chair, one elbow on the table's polished surface.

She looked away. "No. I am not ill." _Though I definitely feel like it._

Illian heard his breath escape and he stood, one hand leaning on the table edge before her. "What is it, Illian?"

He was cross at her—and with good reason. He had more important matters at hand than her dramatics. She must get a grasp on herself.

"I asked for you because the council has informed me of their decision, and I must acquiesce. We shall be married in two days."

"So soon…" His quiet words held the shock she felt.

"You are needed to the West and may not return for some time. They say it must be now."

It would never be the same between them, again. His buried resentment at being forced into such an arrangement would always scar his view of her.

No more easy, casual conversations and quiet discussions of state affairs. No dabbling in Rohan's creeks and racing each other across grassy fields. And the council's expectations of an heir—she choked, feeling tears spill over.

He hated it when she cried, but she did not care. Her world had fallen apart, her last firm rock crumbled beneath her. She did not care what he thought.

"Illian…" His deep voice was taut with strain. She could not meet his eyes and see the anger and disgust there, even when she felt him lean down toward her.

Eomund cleared his throat. "I am honored, Illian. I will do my best to be a good husband for you and a good king for our people."

She managed a nod. Not queenly poise, but the best she could do.

"I must go. It seems there is much to be done."

He straightened with the faint clack of his sword. Illian felt him looking down at her. _Just leave. Please. Leave me in peace._

Eomund's boots thudded on the floor and then the door clicked shut behind him.

* * *

><p>Eomund sucked in air through his nose and let it out through his mouth. He adjusted the folds of his best cloak, checked the sword that hung at his waist. Everyone was ready. Everyone except him.<p>

Once, sitting beside Illian on the sunny bank of the _Thranduin,_ he had dreamed of this day. He had been fourteen, little more than a boy beginning to be a man.

And now it was happening; but it was all wrong.

The memory of her tears when she gave him the news still haunted his thoughts. She had been distraught, while he was too startled and joyful to offer her much comfort.

He had not planned it like this.

But it had happened and it was up to him to care for Illian as best he could. He felt less like a warrior of the Mark and more like a mouse in Driten's stall.

"Milord."

Eomund whirled, a hand on his sword.

"It is time to go. Everything is in readiness."

"Thank-you, Asef." He took a deep breath, stepping out of his quarters and toward the great hall.

* * *

><p>She looked beautiful.<p>

He had known she would. Illian always looked beautiful, even when returning from a difficult day at the healing houses. The women of the court had woven flowers into the braid below her gold circlet, and she wore a gown of deep green that slid over her curves.

Eomund buried a sigh, glancing back at the whirl of dancers celebrating the marriage. Illian looked sick to her stomach. Her green eyes were wide and her cheeks even paler than normal.

He took a swallow from his cup and cast another glance at Illian. The others would stay up dancing and celebrating until the wee hours of the morning, but he doubted Illian would last that long.

She flinched when he touched her elbow.

Eomund took a deep breath and gave her a gentle smile. "You look tired. Shall we leave?"

Illian stared at him a moment, her pulse fluttering beneath the skin on her neck. Eomund felt a cold sickness curl into the pit of his stomach. She'd never been afraid of him before.

She broke eye contact and her hand fumbled for another grape from the bowl before her. "I'm fine."

Eomund pressed his thumb and forefinger to the bridge of his nose. He'd wondered how to handle this. Illian— and, honestly, he as well—was uncomfortable with the idea and the council had not exactly been understanding.

"Illi…" Eomund raised his head. "I just think you should get some rest."

She swallowed, smoothed her dress. "You're probably right."

Many eyes followed them as they slipped from the hall, but Eomund moved between Illian and the crowd. At least she would be spared from them seeing her face.

He walked her to the door of the quarters they would now share, and paused. He opened the door for her and looked down, but her eyes were flicking around the room.

Eomund hesitated, then stepped back for her to enter. "I'll see Driten settled for the night."

A flicker of gratitude in her eyes was hidden as she stepped inside and shut the door. Eomund grimaced as he walked through the cool, quiet night toward the stables. She was thankful now; his cowardice would probably make things more difficult for her in the long term.

She had said he always spoke with wisdom. He wished for more of it now.

* * *

><p>Eomund pulled down the handle of the door to their quarters, knocking his elbow against the wood to warn Illian of his presence.<p>

She sat on the edge of the bed, a long nightgown covering the feet she had tucked up beneath her. Her loosely braided hair fell behind her. Eomund swallowed and crossed to the hearth to add more wood to the fading fire. By his sword, she was beautiful.

"Is Driten well?"

He tossed another log on the fire and sparks chased each other up the chimney. Eomund turned and rested his elbows on his knees. "Well enough. He's bored without being on patrol."

Illian nodded. Her wide green eyes still watched him from their corners. Weariness fell over him, sucking willpower from his bones. Eomund rose and moved slowly toward her.

"Illi…"

She turned her face away and her shoulders began to shake. It felt like Driten had kicked him in the gut. What had he done? She no longer trusted him.

Eomund crossed to the bed and sat beside her. He gripped her shoulders and turned her toward him. Sobs wracked her frame and she refused to look at him.

"I'm sorry," she said, gasping. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry…"

"Illi…" He pulled her tight into his chest, his heart twisting in sympathy. He held her until finally her sobs began to ease.

Eomund loosened his grip. "Illi, look at me."

She swiped at her cheeks, her tangled golden locks falling across her face.

"Illian. Look at me."

A shudder went through her body; she slowly raised her eyes and swallowed.

"Illian, milady." He took a deep breath to suppress the pain of meeting her tearful gaze. "It's me, all right? It's just me."

She gulped, her breathing uneven.

"All will be well, milady. I swear it." Eomund carefully brushed the hair from her face with a finger. Illian blinked and her throat moved as she swallowed.

He put every ounce of confidence he possessed into his gaze. "You trusted me before, Illi. Trust me now."


	3. Chapter 3

Illian awoke to the unfamiliar sensation of warmth.

She lay for a moment, considering this mystery. Usually the room's chill roused her, shivering, every morning. Perhaps Bigren had eased open the door and joined her for the night. She had yet to break the hound's habit.

Illian stretched out her hand, expecting to find the animal's bristly fur. Instead her fingers met warm, soft sheets.

She rubbed her cheeks and sat up, glancing around the dimly-lit room. Her trunk rested in the corner. As did another.

Her eyes widened as realization sent shivers down her spine.

Illian leapt out of bed, pulling on her linen undergarments and thick woolen overdress. The lacings up the back of her dress defied her fingers and Illian muttered under her breath.

Eomund could return at any moment.

She slipped into her fur-lined boots, threw her cloak around her shoulders and twisted up her hair, securing it with a savage thrust of the pin. Who knew what this day might hold—but whatever it was, it couldn't be pleasant.

Illian thrust open the door and hurried down the hallway toward the kitchens. With any luck Givir had made sweet rolls. She rounded the corner and shoved the swinging doors open, smacking into a hard body on the other side.

Eomund had an arm around her, steadying her, before she even realized it was him. She shied away and he released her.

"Good morning, milady."

Illian managed a nod, keeping her gaze on their fat baker laboring over a pile of dough on the counter. "Givir, did you make sweet rolls this morning?"

"Aye, that I did." He turned to her, beaming. "They be all gone by now, though."

"Oh." She sighed, tucking back up a wisp of hair gone awry.

Eomund silently handed her two of the rolls, wrapped in a soft towel.

He'd known they were her favorite and saved them for her. Illian stared down at the rolls, angry tears brimming. Why couldn't he act gruff or authoritative, like a husband was supposed to be; he was making this so much more difficult.

"Would you just stop?" She took the rolls, and turned toward the door—but not before she saw pain flash across Eomund's face.

"I received word from my scouts this morning," he said, his calm mask sliding back in place. "Wolves are again attacking the herds. The eored leaves within the hour."

Illian bit her lip. He hesitated, looking down at her, then nodded. "I will return in a fortnight."

Eomund strode out of the kitchen annex, through the back door that led to the stables. Illian sighed, walking back to her quarters.

She felt even more miserable.

Illian closed the door to her room—their room—and stared down at the rolls in her hand, a tear sliding down her cheek.

* * *

><p>Eomund fought the urge to drive his fist through the slat-board wall of Driten's stall. It was a losing battle.<p>

Instead he picked up the heavy leather saddle, hefting it onto the embroidered blanket on his horse's back. What had he done to make her hate him? He had been as gentle as he knew how.

Eomund pulled the saddle girth tight and winced. He had been afraid she would react this way, coping with her fear and grief by turning it into anger. He slid the bridle straps off his shoulder and over Driten's head, pressing the bit against the horse's teeth.

Perhaps she would be better adjusted by his return; he hoped so for both their sakes. He was flesh and blood—he would not just vanish with her wishful thoughts.

"All are ready, milord."

"Thank-you, Railf." Eomund lifted the stall door latch, pushing it open and leading Driten through. The animal's hooves thudded dully on the packed earth floor of the stable.

Railf's leather saddle and gear creaked as he shifted. "She will grow to accept you. In time."

Eomund tugged Driten's forelock, then moved to the horse's side and mounted. He gripped a handful of mane and reins, nudging the animal forward.

"Maybe," he said.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter Four

Illian thrust the shuttle through the loom and pulled the warp threads tight. She repeated the action, then leaned back on her stool to inspect her work of nearly two weeks.

The blanket was almost finished, needing only the dark blue border along the bottom to complete the design. Illian sighed and ran her fingers over its surface.

"A new couple deserves a new coverlet," said Fania, rubbing thick, serviceable hands on her clean apron as she entered the room and spied Illian at work. "And who better than the bride to make it? I still have yet to find a more skilled weaver."

"Or a more impatient one," Illian said, smiling. "It's a wonder you bothered to teach me."

"I've always had faith in you." Fania patted Illian's shoulder and then stooped to pick up a stack of newly woven blankets. "We'll need these, it looks to be a cold winter and will be rough on the village families."

Illian grimaced, wishing their land were not already stripped of its resources. "As long as disease does not spread, we should be able to manage."

"Ach! That reminds me." Fania paused in the doorway. "Helena is feeling a mite poorly, I heard. Could you stop by and take a peek?"

"Of course." Illian frowned. The poor woman already had two small children to care for. She could not afford to be ill as well.

"I know you'll be able to help her, ye be as good a healer as…" Fania looked down, shifting her load of blankets. "As your mother was, child."

Illian stared at the woven fabric before her, the pattern obscured by her tears. "I will do what I can."

"Aye, you always do." The older woman paused, then turned and padded down the corridor.

* * *

><p>Illian smiled as children scurried ahead of her, chattering her name, down the crevassed paths between the huts.<p>

"Hello," she said, waving at a small, dark-eyed girl who stared at her from the protection of a doorway. The child ducked back, then reappeared and wiggled her fingers at Illian.

A tall boy of about ten appeared from one of the huts, toting a blond-haired toddler on his back.

"Thank-you, Queen Illian, for coming to help us," he said, his dark eyes filled with a solemnity to fit the occasion.

"It's my privilege." She smiled at him, ruffling the silky hair of the toddler as she moved past them into the hut.

It was moist and dark, the winter chill already seeping through the turf walls. Illian moved quickly to the figure lying on a pallet in one corner and knelt beside her.

"Helena?"

The young mother gazed up at her, for a moment looking confused and then relapsing into a dull stare. Her skin burned at Illian's touch and was covered in an angry rash.

Illian glanced up at the boy, who hovered nearby. "How long has she been like this?"

"She has been hot only these past few days. But she had spots since the week Dat left."

"When did your father leave?"

The boy raised his chin. "He is gone with the eored, milady."

Illian flinched, turning back to her patient. Her eyes would not follow Illian's fingers and her tongue was dry in her mouth. Illian smoothed back Helena's damp hair, then looked back up at the boy.

"You must take your brothers and sisters and go to Girult in the great hall. Tell him to let you stay with Fania and to come at once with his herbs."

He stared at her, then nodded. When he still hesitated, Illian gave him an encouraging smile.

"You must go and be a strong man for your mother. It is very important you go for me."

"Yes, milady." He looked down at the woman on the pallet and swallowed. "Will she get better soon?"

His tone betrayed the frightened little boy inside.

Illian bit her lip and glanced at Helena. "I will do what I can. Now go."

* * *

><p>Eomund plunged his sword into the wolf's belly. He jerked it out as the beast fell, yelping and snapping.<p>

"Milord!"

He whirled, swinging his sword arm up in time to catch another wolf under the jaw as it leaped at him. The wolf landed on all fours, shaking its head and growling.

Eomund looked it warily, then gripped his sword with both hands and swung out and down, cleaving through the animal's shoulder and into its chest. He dropped to his knee as it crumpled, taking his sword with it.

"Cleared!" Railf's voice rang out above the weary fuzz in Eomund's mind. He shook his head, drawing out his sword and pushing himself to his feet. Dead wolves—and not a few horses—littered the chopped turf around him. But no men, thankfully.

"Injured?" Eomund glanced over at Railf, who nodded.

"Only a few, milord," he said. "Mostly shallow flesh wounds, which should heal without much difficulty."

"Can they wait until we return?"

"Yes. Probably."

Eomund stabbed his sword into the ground to remove its coating of blood and fur. "We'll do our best to bandage them up. If any need further aid the healers will see to them when we return."

"Aye, it's best to wait for their skill." Railf tightened his leather belt and walked beside Eomund toward their mounts. "They know far more herbs than the local healers."

"They were well taught." Eomund removed his helmet, shaking back his hair to allow the crisp air to cool him. "The residents are seeing to the injured horses?"

"Aye. Ivan said five were killed and another fifteen injured."

Eomund winced. "We will have to manage without them."

"We have not enough good mounts for the king's house alone," Railf said.

"Then the king's house, too, will learn to do without."

Driten snorted a protest as Eomund pulled the leather saddle cinch tight and looked back at his men. "We will spend the night in Gathre. In the morning we ride east."

A pleased murmuring rippled through the men at the prospect of a warm hearth, warm food and the families waiting for them.

Eomund sighed, forcing his weary muscles to push off as he mounted Driten.


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter Five

Helena did not improve.

Instead she grew worse and worse, murmuring to herself or staring in silence for hours on end. Her son had it as well and this morning the toddler had felt warm to Illian's touch.

She wet the cool, water-and-herb soaked cloth and laid it on the sick woman's chest. Helena had also developed a hacking cough.

It was only a matter of time before everyone in the town fell ill. Sharing a well and living in such close quarters allowed disease to reach its greedy fingers into every home.

"Milady!" Fania burst into the mostly-empty storeroom, which had been temporarily converted into the sick ward. "Old Griken died last night and now his daughter and his family are ill as well."

Illian cringed. She rubbed her eyes and looked up.

"The same?"

"Griken did not have the rash. But his daughter's family does and they said he complained of feeling hot before he went to sleep."

"They must be brought here to stay with the others who are ill. All those with these symptoms must come," Illian said, rising and picking up the bowl of tepid herb-water. She cast a sorrowful glance at her first patient. "I will go see to her little one."

"Milady…" Fania frowned. "You must be careful. You will make yourself sick as well."

Illian looked at her for a moment, then turned away. "My people need me."

She dropped off the herb-water in the kitchen to be replaced with hot water. Givir gave her a worried smile as he took the pot.

"There are many ill?"

Illian sighed. "More every hour."

The man nodded, his kindly face wrinkling with distress.

"Thank-you for your help, Givir."

He shrugged, turning back to his tub of scalding water. "There's little I can do, milady."

"I as well, I fear." She wiped off her hands and hurried down the hall to her old quarters. The toddler lay on her bed, sleeping. He was almost lost to sight among the folds of blankets.

"Eh, Alsef, how do you feel?" Illian slid her arms under him and carefully lifted his thin body.

He blinked, his bright blue eyes wandering and trying to focus. He rubbed his forehead on her shoulder, whimpering. Illian's stomach twisted as her fingers detected the slight bump of the rash beginning on his smooth skin.

"It's okay, _lic ehel_…" Illian touched his hair, a tear slipping down her cheek.

Her mother would have known this fearsome disease. She would have known what combination of herbs and loving care would give these suffering people their best chance to survive.

"I'm sorry," Illian whispered, resting her cheek on the top of the child's head. "You just have me."

* * *

><p>"Easy." Eomund gripped his rider's forearms, steadying the man as he slid down from his horse. "How's the knee?"<p>

"Eh, I've had worse." The man patted his horse and limped toward the circle of men around the fire.

Eomund made quick work of unsaddling the horse and turning him loose with the others to graze. He glanced around the herd to make sure none were missing, then moved back toward the campfire.

Adin may have had worse—the man was ten years older—but Eomund doubted it, considering the man's riding ability before his current injury. Eomund shook his head; he did not like the redness and swelling that lingered around the man's sliced knee.

Wild animals' teeth were notoriously dirty weapons and infection could cause permanent damage. They needed a quality healer as soon as possible; someone like Illian.

Would she be glad to see him?

Eomund ran a hand over his face as he crouched on the cold turf next to his men. He doubted it. Even after two weeks, her words still stung.

"Why the horse-face, commander?"

He glanced up; Adin grinned at him through a mouthful of rye bread.

"Aw, he's just wanting his missus." Another rider snorted and wrapped his cloak tighter around his broad shoulders. "Those young ones are so sentimental."

"You're just jealous." Eomund smiled slightly, shaking his head.

"Me? Jealous?" The rider smirked. "What's _not_ to be jealous of?"

"Careful." A blue-cloaked man looked at Eomund with solemn dark eyes, his expression one of gentle amusement. "Milord knows how to silence such careless talk."

"And I will." Eomund smiled, folding a leg beneath him and sitting back. "But perhaps Olke merely needs a warm meal to restore his wisdom."

"Maybe you'd best finish him off." Adin glanced at the graying sky. "It might be a while, yet."

Eomund looked up into the twilight as a cool, wet flake brushed his stubbled cheek.

* * *

><p>"How many?" Illian paused in her frantic work to stare at Fania.<p>

"Sixty, milady. And many more family members exposed."

"Sixty." She breathed out slowly, glancing around the crowded storeroom. There was little enough room for those already ill, but that could not be helped. The great hall, heated by the central fireplace, was still the warmest place available.

Illian picked up another pail of water, stuffing several blankets under her arm. "Do the best you can, Fania. And tell Givir we'll need more hot water."

"Aye, milady." The older woman shook her head, turning back to her work.

Pallets nearly hid the rush-covered floor of the great hall. Illian sighed, setting down the pail and brushing back her hair. She took a moment to stretch as she surveyed the rows of patients before her; her entire body ached and her eyes struggled to focus.

Illian turned as her assistant healer approached. "How many have received _inhelis?_"

"Only those who arrived before yesterday, milady."

No more than fifteen, then. She fought the temptation to sit down and dissolve into tears. Crying never helped heal anyone.

"Let's get to work, then. There are others who will need our help."

* * *

><p>Would the snow never end?<p>

Eomund buried his cold fingers in the folds of his woven cloak, speaking to Driten to urge him on. The poor beast had been shoving a path through rising snowdrifts for the whole day and most of last night.

It could not be helped. As a member of the royal stables he was in better shape than most of the other mounts.

Eomund twisted in his saddle to look back at the line of riders plodding doggedly in the cleared track. Twenty yards behind the last rider the path was already beginning to blow shut.

There was nothing to do but keep moving forward. Somewhere ahead—it could be miles, hours even, but ahead—lay the warmth of Edoras.

He hated snow. It was beautiful, true, but it smothered landmarks in its silent descent. Even experienced riders caught in such a storm had become lost and never returned.

More than one widow in Edoras bore mute testimony to this sad reality.

Eomund shook falling snow off his shoulders. He did not intend for Illian to be one more victim of the harshness of this land, though at the moment she might think it a favor. She had lost enough already.

"Milord."

He glanced back, pulling up as Railf nudged his mount beside Driten.

"Adin's knee is growing stiffer and the others do not fare much better," Railf said, his voice low. "How much further, do you think?"

Eomund turned and squinted through the driving snow ahead. It obscured all but the nearest hills.

It took eight hours riding in average conditions from their campsite to Edoras. They'd already been riding nearly twelve. He'd been expecting for the past two hours to see the city rising above the hills; they had to be close.

Eomund turned back to his friend. "Not much further, I think."

Railf looked at him at moment, nodded, and turned his horse back to fall in line. Eomund sighed and nudged his exhausted mount on.


	6. Chapter 6

"Milady, you _must_ go rest!"

Illian scowled as she strode down the back hallway in search of more herbs, Fania scuttling behind.

"Milady!"

"They cannot rest," Illian said, pausing to motion at the patients filling yet another room—her new quarters, this time. "Until they do, I will not."

"But if you do not rest, you will become ill yourself—" Fania puffed behind as Illian moved on toward the main hall. "Then how will you aid them, _lic ehel?_"

Illian stopped and turned. "Fania, you are wasting much-needed energy running after me." She removed a packet of dried, crumpled herbs from her apron. "Dissolve this in water and make sure Alsef drinks all of it. Use honey if you have to."

"But milady—"

Illian raised an eyebrow and Fania sighed, taking the packet and scurrying off toward Illian's old quarters.

The dear woman meant well, but Illian could not excuse sleeping when there were still so many suffering and on the brink. Helena was the worst—her elder son recovered quickly, thanks be to _Elshidaa, _but the young mother still hovered between life and death.

"Milady." Illian turned as a haggard old man limped toward her. "Queen Illian. My grandson is ill and I have not the strength to move him."

He bit a lip that had begun quiver. "You must help him, milady. He's a fine lad."

"Where is he?" Illian leaned against the wall, setting down the rags she carried.

"Next door to Bin the miller's house, milady."

She sighed. Right by the city barricade—about as far as you could get from the main hall. "All right, I'll go fetch him. Go to the kitchen and find something warm to eat."

The old man frowned. "Shall I go with you and show the way?"

"I'll manage." Illian laid a hand on the old man's shoulder. "Don't worry, I'll find him. I know the way."

* * *

><p>Eomund could not even find heart to cheer as finally the dark bulk of Edoras' fortifications rose up before them in the snow-filled night. Only a slight murmur rose from his men behind him.<p>

"Almost there," he said, turning in the saddle to look at his riders.

"Almost to your lovely wife, milord."

Eomund grimaced as he looked back to Edoras. Adin's jest had a hollow, pain-filled edge.

Driten's misty breaths had changed to a wheeze by the time they began scaling the hill leading up to the main gates. Eomund leaned his head back, forcing his summoning shout to be heard above the howling winds.

No voice replied, nor even the chink of the guards' armor. The silence of the snow pressed down on them again. Eomund repeated the summons, a hard knot of fear curling in his stomach as once again there was no response.

Everything was too quiet, the night too dark. Not even a watchman's lantern broke the darkness hanging over the town.

Eomund slid off Driten, flinching as his frost-bitten feet struck the ground. He stumbled over to the gate, leaning against it as he pulled out his sword and wedged it in the crack between the cold-shrunk wooden gates. He twisted its edge, knocking up the thick door braces and wedging back the sliding bars.

Driten pushed up beside him, shoving the gates with his shoulder—he had food and his stable on the mind. Eomund twisted his gloved fingers in the horse's mane, letting the animal pull him through the small opening he created to the main street beyond.

Eomund's knees weakened; it was empty. Not a light showed, not a sound reached his ears from the cluster of huts stretching up the hill toward the Golden Hall.

A dog barked and his hand flew to his sword.

* * *

><p>Illian hurried through the frozen, quiet streets of the town. By now nearly all the residents were huddled throughout the great hall.<p>

She blinked away the snowflakes stinging her cheeks and filtering through her lashes. Illian slipped on the snow-packed road and thrust out a hand to catch herself. Shivering, she trudged on.

Finally she saw the miller's house, crouched up against the city wall. Illian opened the door to the nearest hut, its hinges shrieking. It was empty.

She searched the next house, and the next one. Both had been abandoned by their sick or freezing occupants. Where could the child be?

Illian moved on to the next hut, kicking away the snow piled against the door. She yanked on its handle and it gave a few inches. There must be something else blocking it. She shoved away the remainder of the snow, pulling on the door until it slid a few more inches.

That would have to do—if the boy was not in here, she could not afford to take much more time. Illian stumbled into the darkened interior, feeling around the turf-insulated walls. A shelf with a bowl and a chipped plate. Hooks for clothes, though there were none. Her fingers finally found the door again.

Had she missed him? Could she waste time searching again? Illian dropped to her knees and crawled along the edges of the small interior.

_There!_ Her numb fingers found the corner of a pallet and a blanket-covered figure. Illian shook it. "Hello?"

The bundle moaned and her heart leapt. "Hang on, _lic ehel._"

Illian eased the boy off the pallet and slid him as gently as possible toward the door. There was no way they would both fit. She slipped through the narrow opening, then took hold of the boy's legs and pulled him after her.

She winced at his groan.

"It's all right," she said, sliding her arms beneath his legs and shoulders. Illian stumbled to her feet, her knees trembling. "Okay."

She could not fall now. This little boy needed her. Illian forced herself to begin climbing back up the frozen, rutted hill toward the Golden Hall.

Not far now…

Illian tripped and her legs collapsed beneath her; she and her burden crumpled to the ground.

"No," she murmured, resting her forehead against the boy's chilly skin. "No, no…"


	7. Chapter 7

Someone shouted in the distance and Illian frowned, willing her disobedient muscles to turn her head and look.

"Illian!"

That voice—Illian raised her head. Eomund's face loomed over her, swaying in her vision. How…?

"Here, I've got him."

Illian instinctively clutched the boy, her whole body shaking.

"Illi, let me have him."

She blinked at the sharp note of command and loosened her grip. Eomund slid the child out from beneath her, moving him from her line of vision. Illian struggled to stand.

"The boy…?"

"Railf has him."

Illian felt herself sinking into the snow. Eomund's strong arms wrapped around her, pulling her up, and then her world drifted to the black of the night around her.

* * *

><p>Illian felt she was rising out of a fog to the murmur of voices at a distance. She made a feeble effort to sit up, not yet able to open her eyes, but was prevented by a weight across her chest and stomach.<p>

"Lay still…"

The murmur startled Illian and she forced her eyes open. She sat in a corner of the great hall filled with quiet activity as healers moved among the patients lining the floor.

Illian slowly became aware that Eomund sat with his back against the wall behind her, the weight of his arms locked around her preventing her from standing. She felt a flush rising. What should she do? Was he awake?

Illian twisted slightly to glimpse his face. His tawny hair fell in his closed eyes and his head rested against the brick wall of the fireplace. He looked exhausted.

She closed her eyes, resting her stiff body against him. For a moment she wanted nothing more than to stay in this comforting warmth, to sleep…

She sat up quickly, shaking her head in self-disgust. This was Eomund_,_ for heaven's sake. How could she have permitted herself—

His arms tightened and he shifted. "Be still."

"Eomund." She lowered her voice to a soft hiss. "Let go."

"Still..."

Illian grimaced at his muttered words. "Eomund!"

He jerked upright, his arms moving to brace himself. He looked down at her, eyes confused, then drew a hand down his face. "Sorry, Illi."

Illian slid away, stood, and brushed the straw from her dress. What should she say? This wasn't how she expected to see him again after his absence. She'd been counting down the days until his return—she might as well admit it—but now that he was back she found herself at a loss.

"Missed one." Eomund rose, smiling, and removed a stalk from her disheveled braid.

"Thanks." Illian pulled her hair over her shoulder and grimaced. She must look a sight. She couldn't remember the last time she even brushed her hair.

"I bet I look worse."

Illian glanced up, raised an eyebrow. "What are you saying, sir?"

"Well…" Eomund looked down with a teasing grin, which faded as he studied her face. She frowned, not recognizing his expression.

"No," he said softly. His eyes flicked away, then rested back on her. "No, Illi, you always look beautiful."

She stared at him, unable to help herself. What was he trying to do? "Perhaps your cold journey has interfered with your eyesight, milord."

The odd expression fled and he gave her a wry smile. "Perhaps. But I doubt it."

Illian stooped to pick up her cloak and wrapped it around her shoulders. "Perhaps the cold has interfered with both our senses, that we should stand here gabbing."

"Aye, perhaps that as well." Eomund's blue eyes twinkled at her.

She felt a stab of irritation that he could manage to be so cheerful and natural. He was so much better at pretending. It put her out of sorts. He acted like everything was fine. Like things between them were as they'd always been.

Illian felt warmth rush up her neck as a memory rose, unbidden, in her mind, of a deep voice and gentle hands and a soft kiss on her cheek.

_This is absurd. _ She shook herself and picked up the heavy pail of water waiting to be dispensed to the rows of patients on pallets, ignoring Eomund's quizzical glance.

"I can take that." The deadweight bearing down on her shoulder vanished as Eomund lifted the pail in her hand. "Where does it need to go?"

Why did he have to make this so difficult? Illian did not release the handle, glaring up at him. "I can manage. Don't you have very important kingly duties you need to attend to?"

He dropped the pail and she gasped at the sudden burden, her stomach quivering as she caught real anger flaring in his eyes.

"Illian—" A muscle jerked in his stubbled jaw and his powerful frame tensed, the blank mask dropping once again over his features.

Her heart dropped into her stomach, quailing in anticipation of his cutting words—words which, in truth, she knew she deserved—but Eomund took in a deep breath and turned away without speaking.

Illian hefted the pail and started down the rows of sick villagers, pretending not to notice that he stopped to speak quietly to Fania as he passed the harried woman. His kindness made the whole unbearable situation that much harder to bear.

_No more feeling sorry for yourself._ Illian sighed and knelt next to a lumpy straw pallet. The hollow-eyed woman looked up at her with a blank stare.

"Well, now…" Illian took the woman's hand in hers and pressed a wet cloth to the woman's forehead. "How are you feeling this morning?"


	8. Chapter 8

This had to stop.

Obviously time hadn't improved matters. Eomund wasn't sure what he'd hoped for—a softening of her heart, perhaps. A return at least to the easy friendship they had once shared. He definitely had hoped for more than her cold, stiff greeting this morning.

Eomund stared into the flames dancing and snapping in the hearth, not moving as the sounds of the household settling in for the night sank around him. Her rejection had stung, more than he wanted to admit. He wondered if the painful ache in his heart was the kind time would ever ease.

He hated to see her like this. Cold. Guarded. Brittle, as if she were so close to the breaking point that at the slight touch she would shatter into a thousand stinging pieces.

It wasn't the girl he knew. He remembered Illian when she was as carefree as the summer day was long. She ran wild and free across Rohan's flowered meadows, blond curls tossing in the wind and a joyous smile on her face.

The Illian he knew never let anything get her down. She was strong. Brave. Impulsive sometimes, but with a good heart and a clear head. She loved freely and laughed often.

Eomund moved to stir the fire, leaning his back against the warm stones of the fireplace and watching the shadows flicker across the deep red tapestry on the wall, giving the woven white horses life as they leaped and jumped. The light fell on the plain, polished wood furnishings, on the wide bed presiding against one wall. He averted his gaze and sighed.

She hadn't always been this way. But the dark shadow of the wild creatures had crept across their land. Her father had been gone much, keeping the evil at bay, and the weight of the kingdom had fallen on Illian, for though the queen was a good woman and a talented healer, she was rather weak of will.

Increasingly the duties and troubles of Rohan had fallen on Illian's young shoulders, with Eomund able to do little to help her, and the smiles had slipped from her merry lips. Then came the day the messenger brought evil tidings from the east—the Lord of the Mark had fallen.

So it was that when the plague struck the land, not sparing the household of the king, its best healer lay useless in the grip of grief. Illian was left to deal with the tragedy as best she could, as her people lay dying and first her young sister, then her toddling brother, and finally her mother herself succumbed to the disease.

Eomund swallowed, his jaw aching from clenching it. No, she had not always been this way. But the weight of grief and too much responsibility too soon had robbed her joy, and now this…

Why could she not see that he could still be her friend? That he longed to be her friend and confidante, to hold her close and shoulder that burden. And yes, someday, perhaps to be more to her. But for now, he would be content with even a smile.

He glanced again at the thick wooden door.

She should have returned from the great hall an hour ago. Everyone else had already sought their beds. _She has good reason to not seek hers. _

Eomund flinched, shutting out the gnawing voice in his mind. Perhaps she did not intend to come at all. Should he go in search of her? He felt a fool waiting up for her, unable to sleep while their troubles preyed on his mind.

He was trying so hard to be patient, to give her time. To not respond with anger when she rejected his efforts. To deflect her barbs and speak to her gently, as one speaks to a high-strung horse who has been badly wounded.

But oh, the woman could be so infuriating.

The door latch clicked and the object of his thoughts slipped inside, surprise and alarm flashing across her face as she caught sight of him waiting. Eomund unclenched his hands, resisting the urge to wipe them on his trousers. As a man, he felt himself reacting to her beauty, and he clamped down on the thought, annoyed at himself—and at her, for so easily affecting him. He calmed his spiking heartbeat by sheer force of will, making himself meet her gaze.

Illian turned to close the door, and when she faced him again, she gave him a wan smile. "I thought you would be asleep by now, milord, after such a long journey. I apologize if I kept you."

"You mean you hoped I would be," Eomund said without malice. They might as well be honest with each other. He was tired of the games.

Illian froze, staring at him. Her soft lips parted slightly, as if to reply, but no words came out.

"Illi…" He nodded at the hearth across from him. "Have a seat."

She moved with slow steps toward him, and perched on the edge of the stones. A frightened sparrow, poised to flee. He could see the rapid pulse beating in her neck.

Eomund looked away, leaning forward and pinching the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger. What could he say? This has to stop? What have I done to make you hate me? Or worse, far worse, Could you please just give me a chance?

He leaned back, staring at the shadowed ceiling, feeling her wide green eyes fixed on his face.

"Milord—" Her words came out in a breathy gasp. "About this morning, I am sorry, I—"

"Illian." Eomund looked at her, his gentle word stopping her rambling. She bit her lip, eyes falling to the ash-covered hearth, and his heart stirred. "Illi, you are troubled. I would help you, if I can."

Her eyes flew up to his own, and he felt the impact down to his toes. He had to get a grip on himself.

She was startled. She hadn't expected him to say that. Eomund frowned, tamping down his annoyance. What did she expect him to do, chastise her? Doubtless she deserved it.

Illian swallowed, her eyes flicking around the room. He felt his irritation evaporating.

"Talk to me, Illi."

"What is there to say?" She flung her hands up, her poise cracking. "No words can undo what has happened."

"No, but they might aid to mend the damage." Eomund leaned his elbows on his knees, clasping his hands as he studied her features. "Tell me what troubles you, _lic ehel._"

Tears sprang to her eyes at his rarely-used pet name for her, and she wiped them brusquely away. "I—in truth, I know not what to say, milord."

Eomund waited, burying his impatience. She would speak when she found the silence too unbearable.

Illian swallowed, lowering her gaze and running slim fingers over the gold embroidery decorating her gown. "I wish none of this had happened. I wish we could go back, before the shadow crept over the land and father rode away forever and everyone, everyone was dying except me. Before…"

"Before I became your king," Eomund said quietly.

She didn't respond, but a flush rose in her pale cheeks.

"Those days are gone, Illian."

"I know." She looked at him, a full look, and her eyes held an emptiness that grieved his heart to see in such a young, lovely face. "I know they're gone."

"But the days ahead do not have to be dark, milady." Eomund hesitated, longing to help her understand, but feeling sharply his ineptness to explain. He was a man of action, not of fine speech. "Change does not have to mean grief."

Illian turned her face away. "It always means grief."

"No." He felt anger rising and for once did not try to quell it in his tone. "Not always, milady. This change can be a joy to you, if you will but let it."

She whirled on him, her brown eyes snapping, yet filled with pain. "You act as if nothing has changed. You pretend that we are still simply small children, friends out for a lark. You act as if things can stay the same, but they cannot!"

Eomund stared at her, taken off guard. He had thought she wanted him to be her friend, and nothing more. What was she saying?

He took a deep breath, forcing out the words his heart feared to speak. "Do you want things to change between us?"

Illian looked at him, licked her lips nervously, then dropped her gaze to her clasped hands. When she answered, it was in a very small voice.

"They already have, milord," she said.

He tried not to flinch. What had he expected? For her to throw her arms around him and declare passionate love for him? Eomund forced away the image. No, though it would have been nice.

"Do you want it back to the way it was?" He was offering an impossible thing, he knew that, but for her sake he would try.

"I—" She looked at him, struggling to speak, then tears filled her eyes. Illian covered her face with her hands. "I don't know."

She was going to reject him. He knew it. But he couldn't help it.

Eomund slid across the hearth and wrapped his arm around her, pulling her into the hollow of his shoulder. Illian stiffened, but to his surprise didn't draw away. The moment stretched, like a cat after a long nap, but she did not move and he feared to speak.

Finally, he took a steadying breath. "If I—started changing things between us, would you give me a chance?"

She didn't answer. Eomund's heart pounded in his chest, fear coiling in his stomach, and he had to fight back the temptation to make a run for the stable.

Illian shifted and tilted her face up toward him, her eyes wide and questioning. "What do you mean?"

"I mean…" Eomund paused, distracted by her beautiful eyes so close to his own. And those lips, parted just so…

He leaned toward her, the throb of his heartbeat in his ears drowning out reason, and gently kissed that sweet, inviting mouth. Oh, she was heaven.

Illian stiffened, her small body tensing. But he held back, not wishing to frighten her, and was rewarded as she slowly melted into him against her own volition. A hot rush swept through him and Eomund drew back, breathing heavily.

She stared up at him, her eyes even wider if possible. But not angry, instead filled with surprise and not a little wonder. He gave her a small smile and she blinked, as if coming out of a dream.

"I mean," Eomund said softly. "That if I began treating you as a woman—as my wife—would you let me?"

Illian swallowed, the turmoil of conflicting emotions evident on her face. He forced himself to remain silent and wait until she spoke.

After a silence that seemed to go on forever she sighed, turning to bury her face in his shoulder. "I will try," she whispered.

Warmth rushed through him that had nothing to do with the physical. Eomund drew her gently to him, happiness he had thought impossible a mere hour before now welling up in his chest.

He slipped his hand under Illian and lifted her in his arms, anticipating her gasp of apprehension. "Do not fear, _lic ehel_," he murmured.

Eomund set her gently on the bed, before laying down himself a comfortable distance away. She kept casting wary glances at him out of the corners of her eyes, but he supposed he couldn't blame her after his impromptu kiss.

"Illian…" he said softly. She glanced up at him, and he gave her a tentative smile. "Will you let me hold you?"

A slight hesitation, then a nod so faint Eomund would have missed it if he hadn't been so carefully looking for it.

He shifted closer, sliding his arms around her and drawing her against his chest. Eomund could feel her tension, hear Illian's hurried breathing, but he didn't release her. He simply focused on taking slow, even breaths and holding still—no easy feat with him holding her so close. But it worked.

Slowly, she relaxed. Ever so slowly, the tension seeped out of her body and her breathing grew deep and steady in sleep. Eomund closed his eyes.

One day, perhaps she would come to him gladly. One day, perhaps they could make love as a true husband and wife, without any shame.

But today…today he was grateful. Today he was more than content to just lie with her sleeping in his arms, breathing in her scent until he drifted off to sleep himself.


End file.
